


Purple and Gold

by Elvendork



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: e049 Old Oak Doors Part B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos comes home, and whether that means to Night Vale or to Cecil seems fairly irrelevant at this point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purple and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Old Oak Doors _broke me_ and I needed to fix it. As usual that involves a fic that is at least three times longer than originally planned, and like both of my other WTNV fics was written quickly and on a whim (so I do apologise for any errors, although I hope I have caught them). I do not own WTNV, etc.

Cecil has not heard from Carlos in three days. It is the longest they have gone without speaking to each other since the doors closed. Carlos has been so careful to call every single day, sometimes more than once, and they have both always been so reluctant to hang up it has long passed the point of being funny. There have been texts, too, and emails, Snapchat – almost every form of communication available to them.

And yet now the day of their first anniversary marks the third evening in a row of Cecil sitting at home, alone, clutching his phone and _desperately_ praying for it to ring. He has been sitting here for hours. They have an agreed schedule – additional contact notwithstanding, Carlos will call Cecil at eight o’clock every evening. If he has not called by half past, Cecil will call _him_.

It is gone half past ten. There has not been as much as a single beep from Cecil’s phone, nor any response to his own attempts at contact.

 _A scientist is always fine_.

Cecil knows that time is an illusion and that even were they both in Night Vale there is never any way to guarantee that their own personal chronologies will align. It could be that Carlos has not yet even passed their usual appointment time on the first day, in whatever alternate place he is now.

It could be that their timelines are matched perfectly but that Carlos is busy or distracted by some fascinating new scientific discovery, perhaps even one that could be essential to his coming back to Night Vale. If not that, it might be troubles with his phone; perhaps he has finally run out of battery, or wandered into an area without any signal. He could have lost it or broken it.

 _A scientist is usually fine_.

He could be hurt. Something might have happened to him and Cecil would never know. He would never have any information, only the persistent lack of it.

 _He might never find out_.

Cecil’s eyes are stinging, suddenly. He swallows past the pressure in his throat and presses the _call_ button for perhaps the fiftieth time. He listens to it ring.

And ring.

And ring.

Until it connects – again – to voice mail, and Cecil leaves yet another message with an increasingly shaky voice.

‘Please come home, Carlos,’ he whispers near the end, struggling to keep his words intelligible through the wavering. ‘I just want to know you’re safe. I love you.’

He hangs up and lets his hand fall away from his ear, still clutching his phone. His elbows are resting on his knees and he is perched on the very edge of his sofa. The hand holding his cell is hanging down; his forehead is propped on the palm of the other. His fingers are buried in his hair, which is back to its dull baseline black as though lacking the energy to change, as usual, in tune with his mood. It falls gracelessly over his eyes, which are now squeezed shut.

Today marks exactly one year since their first date. Cecil wonders if Carlos has remembered, wherever he is. Cecil remembers – of course he does.

He remembers his own dizzy disbelief that such a thing could be happening. He remembers feeling lightheaded with joy, so much so that he had hardly noticed the shadow people who had gradually overtaken the town. He remembers studying the trees with his dear Carlos, whose enthusiasm for science is so incredibly infectious. He remembers the kiss.

Oh yes, he remembers the kiss. If he forgets everything else that has ever happened in his life (which he knows from experience is not impossible) then he will never forget that kiss, or the events that led up to it. Not that it had been a particularly _unusual_ kiss… but it had been their first.

He remembers, just a couple of weeks earlier, the devastation of believing Carlos – believing that Carlos was – was dead.

The tears that have been building in his eyes for the last several hours are now coursing silently down his cheeks. The rising pressure in his chest and throat is making it difficult to breathe, and he can feel himself starting to gasp, hitching on the edge of what could quickly become sobs.

Carlos could be dead right now, and _Cecil would never know_

No, Carlos _cannot_ be dead – Cecil _would_ know, somehow, he would, wouldn’t he?

 _A scientist is always fine_.

Cecil can feel his tattoos – actually _feel_ them, which is an unusual sensation – coiling and bunching around his shoulders, twisting like snakes beneath his skin. They have retreated from their normal position trailing down his arms and are now gathered out of sight beneath his sleeves. They have never done this before.

 _A scientist is usually fine_.

No, _no_ , he knows that Carlos is okay, he has to be –

He punches the _call_ button again and is only connected to voice mail once more. He cannot even bring himself to speak and if any message is recorded before the phone hits the opposite wall and shatters, it is only the first of Cecil’s wracking sobs. Great, heaving things that drag through his whole body as the tears flood down his cheeks and he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. The sobs _hurt_. He sinks from the edge of the sofa onto the floor.

Carlos is gone, Carlos is _gone_ , all because as far as the universe is concerned he doesn’t belong in Night Vale? The universe is _wrong_. Carlos belongs with Cecil.

No. Carlos belongs wherever he wants to belong, but Cecil hopes – oh, how he hopes – that that is with him, _here_.

With each day, with each _minute_ that passes, though, the chances of Carlos ever returning go down. They must be so small by now. Hardly any outsiders ever find Night Vale _once_ ; what is the probability that anyone, even Carlos, could do it twice?

Cecil is not aware of anything anymore but his own despair. What is he going to do if Carlos never comes back? He has no proof of anything – it has only been three days – but he cannot help himself. His terror is so strong that it has overtaken every logical thought, every hopeful feeling that he has left.

He is conscious only of an overwhelming grief and fear, of the heat of the tears streaking down his face, of the scouring, scraping feeling of the air sucked so harshly into his chest. He has given himself over entirely to the tempest of his roiling emotions.

He does not hear the knock at his door. He does not notice the sound of the key turning. He does not register the voice. Not at first.

00000

The moment Carlos passed back into what he was fairly sure was his original universe, he had pulled out his phone to call Cecil. He supposes he should not have been surprised – though he was – to discover that his battery had run out. Whatever unknowable power source that had been working on it in the other world is no longer within range, and several weeks without charging while recently being in near constant use has taken its toll.

He does not know where he is at first, only that it is not Night Vale. He does not pause for any longer than it takes to get his bearings before heading in the direction of Cecil’s hometown.

He has no idea which direction that is. He just picks the one that feels right.

He loses track of time. He isn’t sure whether this is in the usual distracted-by-current-circumstances sense, or in the positively Night Valean sense that time no longer has any remote meaning or consistency. He does not think that he stops or sleeps for several days, although at other times it might only have been a few minutes.

When the first vaguely familiar silhouette appears in the distance he could cry with relief.

He doesn’t. He is too focused on his goal for that.

(A scientist is… _almost_ always focused. He has forgotten which number that is. He thinks perhaps twelve, but then recently his own personal priorities have been mingling with and sometimes even replacing his scientific ones to such an extent that his old lists are at the very least in need of some serious adjustments.)

He reaches the town in less time than seems entirely likely, but this is such a minor oddity that it hardly registers. He ignores the shouted greetings of the select few locals he meets along the way; he has only one destination in mind. (There is even what sounds like several muffled exclamations from what Carlos assumes are hidden Secret Police Officers).

It is dark by the time he reaches Cecil’s apartment. He takes a deep breath to steady himself but does not hesitate before knocking on the door.

There is no response, but the lights appear to be on.

He knocks again.

He can hear something inside, something that sounds like – like _crying_?

‘Cecil?’ he calls, but there is no reply. ‘Cecil, I’m coming in.’

Cecil gave him a key months ago. Carlos has rarely had occasion to use it. He uses it now.

The sight that greets him stops him momentarily in his tracks. He is surprised that he cannot actually _hear_ his own heart breaking.

Cecil is curled on the floor with his back to the front of the sofa. His knees are drawn up to his chest and his whole body is shaking with sobs. His hair is black and his arms are bare, sleeves rolled up past his elbows to reveal unmarked caramel skin, without a hint of tattoos.

‘Cecil?’ Carlos asks again, as gently as he possibly can.

Cecil’s head snaps up in an instant and if possible Carlos’s heart breaks just a little bit more. Cecil’s eyes are a dark, dull grey-blue colour, red-rimmed and bloodshot; tear tracks are still running down his cheeks. He looks… shattered.

‘Cecil, I’m so sorry,’ Carlos gasps, stumbling forward but stopping short before he is within reach of his boyfriend. He so _desperately_ wants to close that gap, but he can’t just walk in on Cecil in this state and… _throw_ himself at him. ‘Unless it’s not me you’re upset about,’ he adds quickly, cursing his own brief assumption, ‘In which case – I would still be sorry, but for a different reason. I’m… I’m very confused, right now, I – I’m very happy to see you Cecil, you have no idea how happy, I’m… _overwhelmed_. And relieved. And sad, because – Cecil? Cecil, please… can you say something? Can you… are you okay? No. I can see you’re not okay, I can observe that – I’m a scientist, observing is what I do. I’m sorry. Is there anything – is it something I can help with?’

‘Carlos?’ Cecil’s voice is tremulous and barely audible. Carlos has never heard him sound like that before. He isn’t sure he has ever heard _anyone_ sound like that before; such a combination of grief and hope and disbelief all mingled into one, and overlaid with complete exhaustion on top of that… it is… a lot to take in. Carlos can hardly imagine what it must be like to _feel_. ‘Carlos, are you really here?’

Cecil stands slowly and jerkily, as though unaccustomed to the movement. One hand reaches out seemingly of its own accord, but falls back to his side before it makes contact with its intended target.

(Carlos hopes the intended target was him. He hopes it will make another attempt soon.)

‘I’m here, Cecil. I promise. I – how long has it been since we last talked, for you?’

‘Three days,’ chokes Cecil. The tears have not quite stopped yet and his breathing is still uneven. ‘I thought – I was worried that you were – that something had happened to you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Carlos, ‘I’m so sorry. After I found my way back my cell was dead and I didn’t stop to think, I just came straight here and I don’t know exactly where I was or how I got here, or how much time passed during the journey. I just knew I had to get back here. I had to get back to you.’

Oh, how he wants to just go forward and wrap his arms around Cecil’s small frame, wipe those tears away and see the colour come back to his eyes and hair, see him _okay_ again. See him _smile_. It feels like a very long time since he saw Cecil smile.

‘You came straight here?’ Cecil asks, apparently unsure what else to do. His eyes are fixed on Carlos’s face with unnerving intensity. Their colour is – _churning_ is the only word Carlos can think of. Not _changing_ but… shifting restlessly, like an ocean in the middle of a storm.

‘Of course I did. I missed you.’

‘I missed you too,’ whispers Cecil, ‘so much.’

Carlos allows his eyes to flicker down briefly to the edge of Cecil’s sleeves, where he can see the very tips of Cecil’s tattoos creeping back down. They are deep blackish-blue in colour, like a fresh bruise.

‘I love you,’ says Carlos. The ends of the tattoos flush pale grey at his words. The colour chases up just slower than the tendrils curl down, so that they seem to be dipping themselves into paint as they emerge from beneath Cecil’s sleeves. ‘I love you, Cecil, and I will always come back to you.’ A touch, just the faintest touch of the palest lilac washes through the tattoos. When Carlos looks back to Cecil’s eyes, they are fading and shifting to clear honey.

‘I love you, too,’ Cecil replies softly. His voice breaks slightly on “you”.

‘Can I…?’ Carlos raises his hand and holds it out to take Cecil’s. Cecil lurches forward with what sounds like a sob and throws himself into Carlos’s arms, burying his face into the scientist’s neck.

‘I missed you Carlos – I love you so much – I was so worried –’

‘I love you too Cecil – I love you – I love you –’

They are clutching each other tightly enough to hurt. Carlos turns his head without loosening his grip and kisses Cecil’s ear, his hair – which is now a slowly brightening magenta, though still bearing traces of its former black.

‘I thought you might never come home,’ whispers Cecil. The words are a double blow to Carlos. One is for the worry he has caused Cecil, which hits like a sickening punch to the gut. One is for Cecil’s unhesitating use of the word _home_ , which… he can’t really identify, beyond the fact that it is a good emotion. The combination leaves him reeling.

‘I’m sorry,’ Carlos breathes.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Carlos hears Cecil swallow. He can feel him trying to pull himself together, regain his composure.

‘I still feel sorry,’ Carlos persists. ‘I’m sorry that you felt like this, and that I couldn’t contact you. I’m sorry that I always make you worry. I feel –’

‘It’s okay,’ Cecil interrupts. ‘You don’t need to explain.’ He pulls away, though only far enough that he can look Carlos in the eye; not far enough to lose contact. He moves one hand from Carlos’s back to his jaw. His tattoos have moved far enough down to be gathering on his palms now – they have never done that before – and are clustering at every point of contact between he and Carlos. They are awash with the sort of bright pink-purple-red-orange Carlos has only ever seen two or three times before – at the Arby’s after the fiasco at the bowling alley, on their first date, the first time Carlos said “I love you” – and laced with a gold almost the same shade as his eyes. They are the colour of the most brilliant sunrise in the world. ‘I’m just so glad you’re back.’

‘Me too,’ Carlos replies sincerely. ‘Me too.’

They maintain eye contact for several more seconds before melting into a slightly softer hug. No less steeped in the emotion of reunion, but more… settled. Less desperate than before. Still tight, but not bruising.

They stand there together for a very long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Despite being longer than I expected, that also ended sooner than I expected. It just felt like an appropriate point to stop. I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading.


End file.
